I am a fool for April

The month of March passed very quickly for me and I am sort of glad it is gone. Not that I dislike March. March is a good month really. It heralds the coming of spring, robins returning , snow melting, and winter madness, for most of us, making way for spring fever. March is month that wears many hats. It's a month that will one day be sunny and clear and warm with everyone wearing light jackets and running shoes and the next day those same people are wearing ear-muffs, boots and parka's and digging out three feet of snow that fell overnight.
I find as I get older that I wish for springs' return earlier and earlier. It's not that I hate winter. I don't! I like snow. Winter doesn't bother me at all. Sometimes though, it just seems to last longer every year. And this is one of them!
Out in the country areas you can still find banks of snow and the woods and bush still have a lot of the white stuff accumulated. I am sure that up North, there is more snow still laying on the ground in sheltered areas than what we have down in our southern part of Ontario.
Today it was warm in the sun and there was a heavy wind at times and I thought to myself that March really is over and now that April is here it won't be long for a complete thaw to take hold. Maybe I am just an April fool. But robins were singing and that made me happy for the day. So I want to say a fond farewell to March and a warm welcome to April with a poem by one of my favourite poets. Take time to really read the words slowly and see and hear what Robert Frost is saying. You'll see that he describes March's departure and April's arrival wonderfully.

To the Thawing Wind by: Robert Frost

Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snow-bank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do to-night,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.